Yesterday rainy morning, on my way to SunRay Kelley’s and Bonnie’s compound near Sedro Woolley, Washington, I’m hungry, and here is Mom’s cafe. Who can resist? (I’m a sucker for any cafe that says “Mom’s,” or “Home Cooking.”)

Great breakfast of scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, homemade corn muffin. I ask the cook, “Are you Mom?” “Yes,” she says, “but little mama runs this place,” motioning toward the young waitress. “Your daughter?” “Yes. I just do what she says.” Smiles all around.

Mom is Linda Hanger, daughter is Jess, and she’s lovely. Doesn’t know it either. Radiant smile, kindness in face, sparkling eyes. There’s substance here too, and humor. She’s 22 and lives, it turns out, in a tiny home on 22 acres in the hills and practices permaculture. There’s something about the 20-year-olds these days. Children of the boomers. A whole new breed. Hope in this battered world.

On tonight’s walk:

This little SUV looked so tuned in. Maybe it’s a surfer with a tiny home.

Beach was wind-swept and people-less as the storm hovered offshore, except for the lovers hanging out on the groin. Tall dark handsome guy “…from Switzerland,” pretty, good-vibes California girl, a nice couple. I love a deserted beach.

“All the leaves are brown,

And the sky is grey…” – Mamas and Papas on Sirius ’60s radio right now. You know, this is a pretty good song.

It’s a hard climb up, maybe a few miles, but the downhill is FUN! Curves and speed and vistas, coasting. When I let go of the brakes on this (Stumpjumper) bike, it seems to accelerate. Whoo!

   I got about halfway down, going at a pretty good speed and I heard “On your left,” and wild Indian on a bike came flying, I mean flying, past me. My first impression was of the long hair blowing in the wind, this guy was dressed not like a cyclist, but in plain old clothes. Goin’ FAST…No helmet. After he flew past, my jaw dropped even further as he started jumping. Front wheel up, back wheel off ground, rotate in air, lining up so landings were right.

  Wild and beautiful, the level of his skill and grace. Never seen anything like it. I screamed a whooo and he answered whooo. This was poetry; athleticism, coordination, daring — and joy.

   I caught up with him at the bottom; he and buddies were heading in a car to the local skate park. I followed and watched him on his bike and homie Sam on skateboard just shred the place. 

He’s 18 and his name is Trevor “Ratman” Perelson. He said he had a website. I asked the name and he said, “Well it’s a vulgar name…” “What is it?” “Well, I was a lot younger when I named it…” “OK, OK, what is it?” dontshaveyourtwat.blogspot.com The enthusiasm is exhilarating, they’re exploring the world with such zest…We talked for a while. We had things in common, like him and Sam “…seeking secret spots…” It was really my first solid contact with the teenage generation, looks like a whole new deal. I feel privileged to connect with people so young (almost a 60 year age difference here). Evolution…

I bailed from my job as an insurance broker in San Francisco (and from my generation) in the mid-60s. In 1964, I bought a lid of weed (really a tin Prince Albert can) from a tattooed sailor in Mill Valley, smoked a bit that night and went totally on to the right side of my brain. Boy! My days in the business world were doomed.

Things were happening in SF, the world was changing, and after a trip riding the rails and hitchhiking to the east coast, I returned home, quit my then-well-paying job and went to work as a carpenter. 1965. What a relief to quit wearing suits, which I hated, and to now go to lumber yards and drive around in a pickup truck scavenging building materials.

I left the culture of my age group and dove into the cutural revolution. People 10 years younge — what they were into resonated with me. My high school and college friends stayed on the business track, with its attendant economic rewards. I’m the only long-haired guy from the Lowell class of ’52. So it’s with interest I go to the occasional luncheon reunions. Here were maybe 15 guys and I felt a genuine affection for a bunch of them, in spite of economic and political differences. Some deep roots here. When we grew up, we thought the whole world was like San Francisco, the whole world like California. (Were we wrong!) Next year in October we’re having our 60th (ulp!) reunion.

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The United Way realized that it had never received a donation from the city’s most successful lawyer. So a United Way volunteer paid the lawyer a visit in his lavish office.

   The volunteer opened the meeting by saying, “Our research shows that even though your annual income is over two million dollars, you don’t give a penny to charity. Wouldn’t you like to give something back to your community through the United Way?”

   The lawyer thinks for a minute and says, “First, did your research also show you that my mother is dying after a long, painful illness and she has huge medical bills that are far beyond her ability to pay?”

   Embarrassed, the United Way rep mumbles, “Uh . . . no, I didn’t know that.”

   “Secondly,” says the lawyer, “did it show that my brother, a disabled veteran, is blind and confined to a wheelchair and is unable to support his wife and six children?”

   The stricken United Way rep begins to stammer an apology, but is cut off again.

   “Thirdly, did your research also show you that my sister’s husband died in a dreadful car accident, leaving her penniless with a mortgage and three children, one of whom is disabled and another who has learning disabilities requiring an array of private tutors?”

   The humiliated United Way rep, completely beaten, says, “I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”

   The lawyer concludes, “So… if I didn’t give any money to them, what makes you think I’d give any to you?”

From Lew Lewandowski

We published a little book (edited by Michael Rafferty) called Skid Marks: Common Jokes About Lawyers, in 1988. Maybe we’ll get it into eBook form one of these days. It’s wicked.